Before the blacksmith could reply, Mother Bunch, who had more discernment, exclaimed: “Goodness, Agricola—how pale you are! Whatever is the matter?”
“Mother,” said the artisan, hastening to Frances, without replying to the sempstress,—“mother, expect news that will astonish you; but promise me you will be calm.”
“What do you mean? How you tremble! Look at me! Mother Bunch was right—you are quite pale.”
“My kind mother!” and Agricola, kneeling before Frances, took both her hands in his—“you must—you do not know,—but—”
The blacksmith could not go on. Tears of joy interrupted his speech.
“You weep, my dear child! Your tears alarm me. ‘What is the matter?—you terrify me!”
“Oh, no, I would not terrify you; on the contrary,” said Agricola, drying his eyes—“you will be so happy. But, again, you must try and command your feelings, for too much joy is as hurtful as too much grief.”
“What?”
“Did I not say true, when I said he would come?”
“Father!” cried Frances. She rose from her seat; but her surprise and emotion were so great that she put one hand to her heart to still its beating, and then she felt her strength fail. Her son sustained her, and assisted her to sit down.